Before The Fall
by theeventualwinner
Summary: A secret conclave of Fëanor and his sons is held, to address the problems of the house of Fingolfin's rising power amongst the Noldor of Tirion, and the discord it sows within their people. Grudges and secrets are thrown into the light, but while his sons squabble, Fëanor's patience has come to its end. Variable characters and styles per chapter. Mild slash: Maedhros/Fingon.
1. Chapter 1: Conclave

CONCLAVE.

In the dining hall of the House of Fëanor, set in all its glory amongst the proud dwellings of Tirion, the air seemed clotted, thick with deceits and unspoken resentments. Golden light fell in great ribbons through the high windows, dust motes curling uneasily in shimmering radiance, sparking in little flashes of refracted light. They fell like tiny dying stars onto the bare oak table set in the middle of the room, around which a gathering of the sons of Fëanor were arrayed.

With his back to the windows sat Maedhros, idly trailing a finger across the dark whorls of the wooden table. His auburn hair fell like a torrent of flame down his back as he leaned forward in his chair, shifting a little in bored irritation. He opened his mouth to speak, yet as he did he felt an elbow nudge against his ribs, hard enough to make him flinch. With an exasperated look he turned to Maglor, sitting placidly beside him, fiddling with the end of his long braided hair with an expression of nonchalance. Yet as he did so, he caught Maglor's eye, and was mindful of the apprehension he saw there, a brief flare of worry beneath his peaceful demeanour. Quickly, he glanced across the table, to where Caranthir and Curufin sat, both brothers engaged in murmured conversation of the whereabouts of the remainder of their family; Celegorm, and the twins being away on a hunting trip, and their mother occupied with a sudden flurry of artistic motivation, locked away in her sculpting room, carving her statues from blocks of exquisite granites; white and grey and palest pink. And at the head of the table stood their father, his face stony, anger bristling in his every movement, graven into the hard lines of his mouth, woven through the unruly spill of his hair poured like pitch over the shoulders of his russet tunic. An intricate brooch of the eight-pointed star, the sigil of his house shone cold at his collar, the light seeming to shiver down its slender silver rays.

Suddenly, Fëanor slammed a fist down onto the tabletop, rattling the wood against its fastenings. The silence that fell was livid, as all four of his sons whirled in their chairs to stare at him, expressions of shock and consternation caught on their faces.

"I knew it," Fëanor growled, his voice taught and low, setting his jaw rigidly. "I knew it, I _know _it. My beloved brother, so eager for power. Ever he has sought to supplant me, to usurp my throne. I am the elder, the firstborn son; the throne of the Noldor is mine. And he will climb over my cold, dead corpse before he lays a finger on it."

Fëanor's eyes flashed proudly, and with a measured, feline gait he began to pace behind his sons' chairs, following the table's length up and down the hall, ignoring the incredulous faces of his sons that stared up at him in light of this sudden outburst. "Oh he thinks I do not know," he continued, "that I have not heard the rumours. And how he acts, with his so-called wisdom, his perfect politeness, but beneath his smiles and his bows and his pleasantries I can see it; the gleam in his eyes, the jealousy that burns there. He would have what is rightfully mine. He would spit on the laws of our people for one glistening chance at power…"

Standing once more at the head of the table, abruptly he wheeled around, affixing his sons with a piercing stare.

"I will not allow that to happen."

His proclamation rang about the room for what felt like an eternity, each of the brothers caught off-guard by their father's vehemence, this explosive outpouring of emotion so long left to simmer. Unsure of how to react, each pondered their father's words, avoiding his eyes as gradually each brother came to his own conclusions.

Finally, the silence broke, as Maedhros tentatively leaned forward against the table, softly yet firmly entreating, "Father, these rumours you hear, I have heard them whispered also. But I am left unsure. He is your brother, and he has followed you faithfully all of these years. Why would he turn against you? Why…"

"Enough!" Fëanor's retribution was vicious, sending Maedhros sinking back into his chair in confused dismay. "He is a treacherous little worm; that is why! Is it not enough? He is the poison that runs through the veins, unnoticed, untreated, until it reaches the heart, and then we feel its bite. Oh, he has hidden his fangs well, but for all his subtleties I see them. They are there!"

Resting one hand on Maedhros' arm, Maglor gave him a reassuring squeeze, a wry smile touching his lips. He looked up at his father, his serene blue eyes locking onto his father's dark brown, his irises set like blazing shadows in the brilliance of the afternoon light. Calmly Maglor began to speak, his soft, lyrical voice flowing like molten gold through the room.

"Father, please, listen. I have heard rumours also. Do you not think it strange that these whispers coincide so well with the release of the Enemy? The Dark One has always hated you, father, he has always envied you and all that you have wrought. Can you not see? This is a ploy, one of his tricks, nothing more. He seeks to throw discord among us, so as to better achieve his own malicious ends, though what they may be I do not know."

"And what proof have you of this?" Caranthir asked, his deep baritone and dusky complexion adding a threatening note to his words, although whether this was intended Maglor wondered. His younger brother had always been…intimidating. Maglor arched his eyebrow, bidding Caranthir continue. "Since the Dark One's release he has appeared changed, reformed. He is repentant of his malice, we all stood witness to that. Why then do you lay these accusations at _his _feet?"

Maglor opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, Curufin spoke, brushing his raven fall of hair back from his face, and glaring at Maglor sharply from beneath his heavy eyebrows. "Our uncle has always been aloof, and our cousins slippery. Always they have hungered for power, waiting like carrion-birds circling a kill."

"Careful what you imply, brother!" Maedhros growled, causing Maglor to jump at the ferocity of his brother's voice. Curufin looked on, the faintest curls of disdain pricking at the corners of his lips as Maedhros continued. "I will not suffer insult to Fingon, nor his siblings, especially based upon such unfounded rumour. Ever has he been my friend, my closest friend, and I will not have him insulted by the likes of you."

But Curufin ignored the threat in Maedhros' voice, angrily replying, "And are you so eager to leap to his defence? Do you have such proof of his _innocence_? I will not deny that you spend most of your time in his company, gallivanting around the countryside like a pair of star-struck lovers. But how much do you truly know him? Would he open up his heart to you?"

At that Maedhros bridled, his breath inhaled in one sharp, lingering hiss. And beside him, Maglor inwardly braced himself, wincing as he knew that Curufin's words would hit their target well, and he prayed that his brother would not do something regrettable. He watched the play of the muscles in Maedhros' jaw, sliding under his skin as he fought back a scathing retort, until gradually he relaxed, sinking a little lower into his chair, his arms crossed over his chest. A thin smile forced across his lips, and tersely he asked, "Pray tell me, brother, what would you know of the matter?"

"…Rumours reach my ears too, _brother_. And how interesting they are. Two young lords slinking around by candlelight, clothes shed in the most unexpected of places…Well, next time he visits, lock the door and ask him. Lay his heart open before you. Spread his secrets rather than his legs."

Maedhros flushed crimson at his last sneer, a snarl of fury twisting across his face. And almost faster than the eye could follow he lunged around the table, knocking aside Maglor's restraining hand that reached out to stop him, grabbing Curufin by the front of his tunic and hauling him from his chair, leaving him to dangle in his grip, his hands scrabbling against Maedhros' for purchase in some instinctive attempt to break free. Maedhros' knuckles were white and bloodless around fistfuls of Curufin's black tunic, and roughly he pulled him close, their noses almost touching, Maedhros' hazel eyes boring into Curufin's, like liquid pools of ink, dark and wetly shining. Tendons jumped bold in his neck, his arms shaking with a combination of anger, and the effort of holding his brother's weight, as Maedhros hissed,

"You overstep your bounds."

But Curufin smiled, un-intimidated by his elder brother, and jerked his head back, a malicious, knowing grin curving across his face. He cocked his head mockingly to the side, and something cruel glittered behind his eyes. Releasing Maedhros' fists with one hand, he brought it level with his groin; forming a crude, unimaginative gesture, accompanied by a series of low, guttural moans and grunts, the method of their making painfully obvious with the lascivious grin plastered across his face, his tongue licking across his teeth. And for a moment Maedhros was still, paralyzed in stunned disbelief of his brother's arrogance, his boldness, but rage swiftly overcame him, like oil poured over firewood and igniting into flame. His cheeks and neck mottled scarlet, and he recoiled, his right hand letting go of Curufin's tunic, arcing back with dangerous intent; to slap him, to strike him, to wipe that stupid smug smile off of his face, to make him unsay what was said, take back his venomous words and the lethal slivers of truth strung within them. And Curufin just stood there, smiling that insufferable smile, waiting for the blow he knew was to come, secretly exultant that he could affect Maedhros so, twist him around his finger, with all the right words in all the right places disarm him, leave him bleeding on the floor. So he watched, and he waited, seeing the muscles tense in his brother's arm, the veins rising under his skin, waiting for the pain to crash down upon him…

"Maedhros, stop!" His father's voice sliced through the air, sharp and whip-like. "This has gone far enough. Let him go, _now_!"

Grudgingly Maedhros let go of Curufin's tunic, shoving him back down into his chair, and with a look that could have felled birds from the sky stalked back to his own seat on the opposite side of the table, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, a vein pulsing along his neck, still flushed a bright crimson. He flung himself down, staring hard at the table, his auburn hair falling like a wave of flame across his scowling features, fortunately obscuring his view of Curufin, who settled back into his chair with a triumphant sneer, that was rapidly smoothed away into wry neutrality as he noticed Maglor's pointed glare. At the head of the table, Fëanor asserted himself once more, incensed by his sons' behaviour.

"I will have no more of this. You squabble amongst yourselves like petty children. I have heard tale of these disgusting lies also. And I will not hold with them. Maedhros, you and your cousin will separate…"

Maedhros' head snapped upwards, his eyes flaring as he stared at his father in horror. Cold rills of panic ran through him, the air seemed to punch out of his lungs, and he opened his mouth to retort, not even knowing what words he could possibly say but before he could utter a syllable Fëanor snapped, "Don't argue! I have heard enough lies and pathetic protests for one day. You will not see him, Maedhros, you will not be in his company. This is final. You will obey me in this, or else I will set you in bonds. My dearest brother searches for every way to undermine me. And here, my eldest son and his fucking like cats in an alleyway! I will not have it. _Do you understand me_?"

And for one horrifying second it seemed like Maedhros would scream, hurt and despair whirling within him, their blades dragging through his innards, but he remained still, and silent, staring hard into the table, his hands clenched around the arms of his chair. And shakily he exhaled, biting his lip hard to still the trembling of his jaw, suddenly tasting the salty wash of blood in his mouth where his lip split under the pressure. He grimaced, then slumped back into his chair, folding his arms once more across his chest and sullenly glaring his boots, avoiding the probing eyes of his brothers.

"This insubordination shall not be tolerated any longer. I will speak to my father, and we shall set the situation to rights. My brother shall be reminded of his place," Fëanor spat as he turned upon his heel, crossing the room to stand facing the window, looking darkly out over the courtyards and domed rooftops sloping down the city's side, his eyebrows knitted in a frown. The red velvet of his tunic suffused into the afternoon's golden radiance, setting crimson silhouettes wavering about him, limning him in arterial light, a halo steeped in blood.

Behind him, Fëanor heard the scrape of wood over stone, the quiet rustle of fabric as Maglor twisted in his seat to face him, apprehensively watching the hard set of his father's shoulders, the tightness of his hands clasped behind his back as he scowled out of the window.

"Father," Maglor spoke, a note of urgency ringing through his usually balanced tones, "I _urge_ you not to do anything rash, I do not think…"

"Rash?!" Fëanor spat, swinging around to face his sons once more with a look of contempt. He strode back to the head of the table, his eyes caustic, and with a final look he spoke, the words pouring like molten steel over his lips, puissant and edged in deadly potential. "Maglor, do you take me for a fool? You speak of rashness…No. But every slight he has paid me shall be returned in kind. I will not be made a mockery of in the halls of my father, though the Valar rain down their judgement upon me.

And let them try! For too long they have caged us here, trapped behind their walls of stone, these mountains that they claim protect us, but from what? The Enemy himself they have brought among us, loosed him upon our people…But no matter. He is of little consequence. It is his brethren with whom I have quarrel. We are ignored but for what knowledge they deign to teach us, imprisoned for their jealousy of our creations. For have I not wrought what they could not? Who among them, among all of the beings of Arda can match my craftsmanship? And what they cannot make for themselves they would possess, and they would be revealed in their corruption for doing so. My creations are my own, _not theirs_, and never but with my leave will they be taken from me. And my leave I shall not give to them. Let them gnaw on their lust like feral dogs over a bone, but they will not take from me what is rightfully mine.

Ever they seek to contain us, use us like slaves to make their trinkets, to dance for their amusement. But the beauty of our people, of _my_ people waxes strong. We deserve more than slavery. I remember the starlit meres of my birth, the rolling grasslands, the vast emptiness in all of its possibilities, waiting there for us beyond the shores of the sea. But we were taken, misled, and thrown to fester in their cage, like dark flies breeding maggots that start to squirm in the wound, devouring, destroying until we collapse. And they will do nothing. The Valar sit in their lofty halls and they watch and they judge, but they will do nothing.

So I will act before this infestation spreads any further. I will suffer this insult no more. On the morrow, I shall have audience with my father, and our wrongs shall be put to right."

Abruptly Fëanor spun on his heel, stalking out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him, its percussion rippling through the astonished silence left in his wake. All four of the brothers looked at each other in helpless consternation, each shaken by their father's words, and what actions he dared to imply. With an exasperated sigh, Maglor shook his head, muttering, "This is a mistake. But in his pride, he will not even stop to listen, to think…"

"And will you be the one to tell him that?" Curufin broke in, "I do not envy your place if you try."

Then Caranthir, unusually quiet through most of the afternoon's proceedings spoke, in his rumbling baritone questioned, "But what if he is right? You are not blind; it is plain that our uncle desires greater power, and more control over our affairs. And by what right may he claim this? He is not the elder. He is not the superior. The sooner father talks to the king, the better, so our uncle's arrogance may be stilled forever, and that of his insufferable sons."

Glancing at Maedhros' still sullen expression, Maglor started forward as if to speak, but Maedhros' chill voice cut over him, every syllable strained and icy, and sounding as though it hurt.

"Do not speak that way of your kin, Caranthir. Theirs is a nobility that runs deep, even if you refuse to see it."

"If you say so, brother," came the retort, dripping with sarcasm, drawing a smirk from Curufin, and an ugly scowl from Maedhros, glowering at him from across the table. With a lazy half-smile, Caranthir rose, arranging the dramatic sweep of his embroidered robes behind him with a flourish. "Now, I shall await the return of Celegorm and the twins from their hunt. They are due back, by now. Perhaps they will have caught more than a hare apiece this time!"

Curufin stood also, following Caranthir as he strode towards the door, a derisive grin affixed on his face. "Better than you can do, brother!" he called. "The idea of hunting is to hit your prey, you know, rather than create an obstacle course of arrows for it to run straight past!"

With mock theatricality, Caranthir sighed, pausing in the doorframe, one hand raised to his forehead, a ridiculous look of anguish contorting his dark features. "Oh you cut me to the quick! I've seen maidens throw a spear better than you, Curufin, and blindfolded at that!"

Curufin coloured at the jest, and seeing Caranthir slip out of the door stormed after him, beginning a round of colourful bickering that would undoubtedly last them the night; all snide sarcasm and passive aggression as was their wont. Their voices echoed down the corridor, the clatter of their boots against the marble floor slowly fading into silence, leaving Maedhros and Maglor sitting alone in the hall, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

A melancholy silence stretched between them, as the first glimmers of silver crept into the golden afternoon light, little motes of dust shivering as the light fractured upon them. Both brothers watched them, until Maglor pushed himself back in his chair, slouching wearily against its carved back, one hand resting under his chin.

"They're fools, both of them. They speak so confidently of what they do not know. And Curufin grows ever more like Father with every passing moment…"

Maedhros glanced over at him, his lip curling in distaste.

"Mmm, a silver tongue and a perilous temper to match. Joyous…"

Slowly he stood, rolling his shoulders left stiff from where he had been leaning, and wandered towards the doorway. He paused as he reached the door's frame, turning back to face Maglor, still sitting at the table, his long braid snaking over his shoulder, the loose strands of hair at its end splayed like black filigree over his blue jerkin.

"Well, I'm off," Maedhros said jauntily, "I'm going to find Fing…" And then he paused, the name dying in his throat, left hanging incomplete in the air between them. Almost imperceptibly, he flinched, closing his eyes for the briefest moment, a taught quirk passing over his lips as he fought down the rush of emotion that swirled sickeningly within him. He opened his eyes once more, gazing distantly towards the windows, and faintly said, "Nobody. I'm going to find nobody. Nobody at all."

And his gaze flickered across to Maglor, half-dreading his reaction, disgust, revulsion even. But the sorrow that he found there, the raw pity shining in his brother's gentle eyes shook him, wrenching all the harder that nameless, aching emotion carving its way through him.

"I am sorry, brother. Truly." A whisper. Its quiet sibilance lapped at the edges of the room.

And suddenly Maedhros turned, unable to bear it, his brother's terrible _understanding, _his pity, the acknowledgement of his actions and the burning humiliation that spilled out with it, his darkest secrets uncovered, laid bare and dissected before him, for them to sneer at, for them to judge him. Anger and shame and agony all smashed together and warped tore at him, the crush of feelings writhing in his stomach, coiling in his lungs, and he raised a trembling hand, brushing back his hair from where it fell in burning strands across his face. His back turned, not trusting his voice, he uttered tersely, "I'm sorry too. I'll see you tomorrow then, at court," before striding quickly from the room, his head bowed.

Maglor sat alone in the hall, quietly watching the golden quality leach from the air, its grand radiance replaced with subtle silvers; colder perhaps, and paler, but no less beautiful. As the last glimmers faded, he smiled sadly, and reached beneath his chair, plucking a small harp from a bag stashed there earlier, thrown aside once his father had hurriedly called their meeting. His fingers ran over the strings, a chorus of sweet notes humming through the air, and slowly he worked into a rhythm, a lilting melody sifting from the endless possibilities, the infinite potential of the strings stirred to life in his hands. And as their notes echoed around the hall, sadly he thought of his brothers, his father, their concourse earlier and what actions may come of it. _Until tomorrow then, Maedhros,_ he though forlornly, _tomorrow, and whatever misfortunes the new day shall bring._

* * *

For the ease of the reader, all names have been left in Sindarin form. I know, I know, they probably should be in Quenya, but then that drags up issues of using mother-names versus father-names, with the odd epessë or nickname thrown in to thoroughly confuse everyone. So, for clarity's sake, Sindarin names shall be used forthwith.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the first chapter of this little series, which is soon to be updated. (_I know, how unusual for me!)_ As always, reviews shall be treasured. May your day be free of rampaging Balrogs. _theeventualwinner._


	2. Chapter 2: Potential

Shadows curled about the edges of the forge, their gloom cast in murky contrast to the red heat of the furnace, its coals glowing like livid cherries. Tongues of flame licked up its ash-blasted sides, its wide mouth cut into the bare stone tapering to a thin ventilation shaft, venting smoke up and away from the interior of the room. Dug deep into the foundations of the great hill upon which Tirion sat, the rough-hewn walls stood in silent witness to the House of Fëanor's best-kept secret. Far above, his usual airy forges lay openly about his property, frequented by labourers and nobility alike. They birthed some of the finest creations ever wrought in Arda; clearest crystals set in glittering diadems, strands of gold and silver woven as if they were thread into intricate necklaces and shimmering bracelets; the coarse, rude metals refined and sculpted under Fëanor's skilful hands to works of unparalleled clarity and beauty. But below, in a subterranean cave unbeknownst to any save Fëanor and his sons lay another: a forge for steel, for iron, for the most secret works and devices. And it was here now that Fëanor laboured.

With a swift tug, he pulled a glowing blade of steel from where it nestled amongst the coals, feeling its raw, pulsing heat even through his thick leather gloves as they gripped tightly about a crude hilt. Its crossbars flared out a little lower down, sloping back inwards to a long, slightly curved blade an inch in width. Their rough shapes were already defined by hours of work; hissing gouts of molten steel poured and pressed into molds, sheets of fluid metal folded, cooled and folded again, the unrefined silhouette of a sword slowly solidifying until it could be perfected.

With the swift, efficient movement born of centuries of practise, he turned, laying the sword across the dark anvil sitting adjacent to the furnace. He blinked as the glowing afterimages danced before his eyes, smelling the acrid tang of metal sizzling against metal. Wiping the sweat from his brow against collar of his tunic, poking from beneath his heavy smith's apron, he grabbed a solid hammer from the menagerie of blacksmithing tools arrayed upon a nearby table. He weighed it for a moment, juggling it slightly within his gloved hand, his eyes locked upon the still-glowing blade before him. And for an instant it was as if he could see within it, see all of its folds, where rivulets of iron and carbon knitted together at an atomic level, he could pierce through its secrets and so master it, take it and shape it for himself. Readied, he gripped the hilt of the sword firmly within his left hand, and with his right swung the hammer down in one ringing crash. The impact jolted up his arm, and he flinched a little at the shock of it, his shoulder jarring weirdly in its socket. Tiny sparks of metal exploded away from his strike, most of them harmlessly pattering against his apron, but some flicking across his bare arms, the thin film of sweat that shone there doing little to shield him from their stings. He shook his arm away in irritation, a frown knotting his brow.

_That was an amateur's mistake_, he thought, _the wrong angle of impact._

Scowling, he examined the metal closely, satisfying himself that no damage had been done to it. He noted its red tinge fading back to grey, and sighing in annoyance he thrust the metal back into the furnace. As it reheated, he strode across the room, gathering a bucket of icy water drawn from one of the underground rivers that flowed through a nearby cavern, an unexpected discovery while expanding his house's foundations some centuries ago. Placing it near the anvil, he checked on the steel, and determining that it was not yet ready, walked swiftly to a wooden shelf bolted into the wall. His eyes ran over the six unsheathed longswords that lay across it, each forged by his hand from the finest steel, the light sliding like liquid crimson down their sharpened, three and a half foot lengths.

Their grips were wrapped in midnight leather, their scabbards maroon and inlaid with golden filigree at the chape, with an eight-pointed star wrought of smoothest silver set into the locket, rising almost seamlessly out of the leather. Each sword was identical, but for the egg-sized jewel sunk into the pommel; a different stone for each of his sons. A great ruby for his eldest, its dark facets glistening as if a clot of blood were trapped in the crystal; a clear sapphire for Maglor, pallid against the steel but for a knot of cobalt swirled through the gemstone's heart. An elegant emerald for Celegorm; for Caranthir a dark sapphire, tending towards an indigo hue, deep and strangely murky. A glittering diamond cut for Curufin, wraithlike amid the cold steel, and for his youngest a pair of matched emeralds, two halves cut from a single great jewel that he had mined himself, its delicate green like the shimmering rays of Laurelin caught in the shiver of the morning dew. One studded the pommel of a sword already, the other waited beside it to be sheathed in its own metallic home, twin weapons for twin brothers. Behind the swords lay a line of battle-helms, their wide cheek-guards cut like sloping wings. Plumes of dyed swan's feathers spilled from their midlines, a shock of red carving through the silver metalwork.

A faint, self-indulgent smile played at the corners of his lips as he turned back to the forge, once more pulling the red-hot steel from the furnace in a spray of burning embers. He took up his hammer again, feeling the metal shudder beneath his blow, the rills of shock running up his arm, but this time with a measure of fluidity, the impact absorbed with practised, professional technique. Gradually he settled into a rhythm of strikes, the metallic tattoo clanging about the cavern, the refracted sound into a chorus of strange echoes by the cavern walls. Time slipped from him, caught almost trance-like within the swing and crash of his hammer, every minute adjustment instinctive, the knowledge of where to place his blows, when to re-heat the metal blooming in him like something visceral, this innate surety guiding his hands. After a time, he began to slow, his hammer strokes becoming softer, more precise, until with a jolt he snapped from his mechanical reverie, coldly appraising the well-formed blade lying before him. Laying aside his hammer, he grasped the sword's hilt, flicking it upright in his fist as he examined the taper of the blade with eagle's eyes, precise and calculating.

_Seven swords, _he thought, _for seven sons. And plumes red as blood to match their shining steel._

Satisfied, he quickly returned the cooling metal to the furnace, carefully watching until he judged the metal to be hot, but not made malleable. He pulled it out once more, then with a twist plunged it into the bucket of water nearby, grinning as the water bubbled and hissed, little blisters of air running over the blade before they evaporated in a boiling cloud of steam. He held the seething metal underwater, the violence of its intrusion rippling slightly through its length.

_Good_, he thought, _the metal must bend a little, must show its flexibility, else it shall snap. Ironic._ A sneer curled over his lips, marring his handsome features. _I am done with flexibility. My brother's insult will be suffered no more. His infection will be destroyed._

Thrice more he tempered the steel, passing it first through the furnace, then quenching it in water, hardening the metal, solidifying its structure. At last content, he left the sword immersed within the still-bubbling water, leaning against the bucket's edge. Wearily he walked around the forge, rolling his shoulders, loosening his muscles long stiffened with fatigue. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a stained rag he found lying amongst a clutter of iron scraps, then rolling his eyes as he realized he had succeeded in smearing himself with whatever remains clung to that rag, although whether it carbon or rust or some metal oxide he was unsure. Grimacing, he wiped it off his forehead with the inside of his wrist, at the same time smoothing back the locks of hair that had escaped his ponytail during his exertions and now clung to his cheeks in slick, itchy strands. He pulled off a glove, re-tying his hair, as he wandered over to the workbench, before taking up a smooth whetstone, and a length of rough-grained sandpaper, tucking them into the pouch at the front of his apron. Crossing the room, he lifted the sword free of the water, and with his bare hand tapped a finger down the length of the blade, his eyes narrowed in concentration. Finally he was content that he could find no fault in the metal, no unevenness or weakness to mar its integrity.

Thus, he moved to a stool by the workbench, sitting with the blade angled away from him so that he could look down its length, examining the run of the dull steel, the indent of the fuller narrowing and rising to the central ridge, which then tapered off to a formidable point. He took up the whetstone, grinding it down the blade, honing its edge until it shone bright in the glare of the furnace, a weapon to cut through flesh as if it were butter, to part muscle and shear bone, a point to puncture organs. The scrape of stone against metal set his teeth on edge, but he ignored it he once more working to a machine-like rhythm, running the whetstone down the blade careful and gentle as a lover.

_We are infected_, came a sudden thought, images of his brother jumping unbidden into his mind. _And if the tissue is infected, how best to treat the wound? Exorcise it, with sweet herbs and spells sung in the twilight, with all of our gentle arts nurse it back to health. And though it may bleed, the scabs will peel, dark blood and pus flowing like ichor over pale skin, eventually the wound will be clean, it will heal, and the blood will run pure and red and pumping. Then we stitch up the skin, with needle and thread knit it back together. And the scars will fade and we can be whole again._

Gradually, he began to alternate the whetstone with the sandpaper, flaking away the dull, fire-blasted layer of steel to reveal its shimmering core; the metal stained a deep, ruddy crimson by the glowering embers of the furnace. Structurally it was complete, but for the inlay; the pale emerald waiting to be bound within the socket of the pommel, with the metallurgy and spells of his craft set within the steel. The grip needed wrapping, the blade an inscription, simple tasks to be finished later. And after a time, spent in silent, meticulous work but for the hiss of scraping metal and the odd crackle of the coals, he was still, the sword shining keen and new in his hands.

_But what if we fail? What if the infection cannot be countered, if it proves resistant? Where sweetness and magic founder, what course then remains?_

He flicked the sword up, a grin breaking across his face, all twisted lips and pointed incisors as hungrily he stared at the blade, watching the light drip down its razor edge, moiling across its flat. His eyes gleamed, and softly he purred,

"We amputate the limb."


	3. Chapter 3: Weightless

The pale glimmer of Telperion's light filtered through the window, illuminating the interior of Fingon's room in pallid silver. Crammed bookshelves spilling over with scrolls and leather-bound scripts occupied two full walls, looming over a large mahogany desk squashed into the corner nearby, just beside the window left slightly ajar. The desk was cluttered with old notes and inkpots, quills strewn over pages of writing, drooling ink blotches over the neat Tengwar lines flowing over the paper. Books on history lay flung open, slotted through with parchment notes; scrolls with detailed anatomical studies lay unrolled, annotations scrawled frantically around their edges in spiderlike handwriting. Aside from the messiness of the desk, the rest of the room was austere, a modest wardrobe standing next to the wooden door, a nightstand adorned with a blown-out candle, and large double-bed beside it, pushed up against the cream walls. And within the bed, curled up on his side with the blue silk sheets tangled between his legs, lay Fingon, fast asleep.

His black hair lay unbound, a midnight waterfall splashed across his pillow. Light glistened across his bare back, a thin sheen of sweat softly shining in the blood-warm air, highlighting the gentle rise and fall of his ribs, the shift of his vertebrae under his skin as he stirred slightly in his sleep, the tremors of a dream reaching through into the waking world. The papers on his desk fluttered as a breeze floated through his window, though it brought no respite from the heat. The humid air clotted in the room, borne on a fell wind from the furthest east beyond the great Pelóri, where mountains spewed their boiling entrails into the air, and the scorched plains blew desolate and arid below. Something rattled lightly against his windowpane, causing Fingon to twitch slightly, some reflex reacting even from the depths of sleep, but then everything was still, and he relaxed once more, his breathing even and rhythmic through parted lips.

_Crack!_

Something hit against the window, hard, and with a start he jolted awake, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. For a moment he froze, lying stiffly in the bed, his ears strained for any further noise, any signs of alarm. Hearing none, he frowned, weariness calling him back to sleep, but some instinct blared within him, screaming at him to get up, to move…

_Crack!_

He saw it, a pebble smacked against the glass with nearly enough force to shatter it. And a second later, a whisper from outside, taught and urgent:

"_Fingon! Fingon, are you there?"_

Confused, he quickly untangled himself from the sheets, his nose wrinkling in distaste as he noticed how sweaty they were, for the first time feeling the humidity hanging in the room. He stood, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles, then crossed over to the window, unconsciously pulling his undergarments further up over his hips from where they had slithered lower in his sleep, adjusting the thin cotton sticking to his thighs. Warily he inched the window open further, sticking his head out and peering blearily about.

"Fingon!"

The voice came from below, oddly familiar, though the note of tension in it was strange, jarring weirdly in his head. And as he twisted, squinting downwards into the courtyard, in a shadow by an ornamental hedge he caught the briefest flare of red hair spilling down a pale arm. With a sudden rush of relief he sighed, knowing instantly who it was, although the purpose and manner of his unannounced visit left him utterly bewildered.

"Maedhros," he called softly, not wanting to awaken the rest of his household, "I'm here. What…"

But before he could even complete the sentence, Meadhros moved, slipping silently from where he crouched, crossing the distance between the hedge and the walls of Fingolfin's house in three bounded strides. His boots hardly made a sound on the flagstones, and just as Fingon was wondering what on earth Maedhros was intending, what he was even doing here, Maedhros ran, and _jumped, _his fingers latching firmly onto the windowsill inches below Fingon's bare chest, where he looked down at his cousin's suddenly much closer face with blank astonishment.

For one terrible moment Maedhros dangled there, Fingon paralyzed with shock just above him, until Maedhros hissed,

"_Fingon, let me in! Now!"_

The terrible urgency in his voice startled Fingon, and swiftly he ducked back inside his room, shoving the window open fully, and grasping Maedhros' wrist and arm hauled him upwards, suddenly grateful for his years of sportsmanship and hunting, as he bore his cousin's weight easily, pulling him efficiently, if a little roughly through the window. As Maedhros wriggled his legs through, narrowly missing kicking over a chair cluttered with geological diagrams and a leather riding jerkin flung over its back, Fingon let him drop, whirling to slam the window shut behind him.

Glancing nervously through the pane, he could see no signs of discovery, no guardsmen or errant family members wandering through the grounds, as his sister was strangely wont to do during the silver hours. As he turned back around, Maedhros clambered to his feet, straightening his tunic where it had crumpled awkwardly around his chest as he fell.

"Maedhros, what are you doing here? What…what time is it?"

"I don't know. Late. It doesn't matter." 

Fingon watched him warily, dusting off the edge of his pine-green tunic, then shaking out his arm, that was crushed uncomfortably beneath him with his none-too-gentle trip through the window. His cousin looked exhausted, dark circles smudged beneath his hazel eyes, their whites dull and bloodshot. His fiery hair was a tangled mess, its usually smooth waves frizzed and knotted, as with a sigh he brushed it back over his shoulder, turning away from Fingon to stride towards the door, sliding its lock shut with a thump that echoed around the room. Slowly Maedhros turned back to face him, not meeting his eyes, his jaw working with some repressed emotion that Fingon could only guess at.

"What is the matter with you? Maedhros, you look terrible. Here, sit down." Fingon swept a pile of papers off of the chair, dumping them on top of his desk where they slithered uneasily. Flinging his jerkin onto the bed, he twisted the chair around, looking at Maedhros beseechingly. But Maedhros ignored the proffered chair, leaning half-curled against the door, his fingertips white and bloodless where they pressed against the wood. His head bowed, a few locks of his hair dripped across his cheeks in burning rivulets, as Fingon looked on in increasing worry. _Like a wounded animal_, he thought suddenly, his throat clenching. _Like a fox caught in a snare._

"Maedhros…" he started, his voice carefully kept low and even, but before he could continue, Maedhros' head snapped upwards, his wide hazel eyes staring like knives into Fingon's, yet in a curiously pained tone he said,

"Don't go to court tomorrow."

The words hung in the air between them, as if trapped in the viscous humidity, locked within the pallid light. Fingon stared at him, his brow crinkling in confusion, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

_This is what he wanted to tell me?_

He regarded Maedhros for a brief second, half-formed thoughts and fantasies and guesses as to his meaning raced through his mind, before he sighed, shaking his head slightly in tiredness and irritated confusion.

"What?" he asked sharply. "Maedhros, _what are you talking about_?"

"Please!" There was an urgency in his cousin's voice that gave him pause, some dreadful note of pleading that pierced through his annoyance, and he looked at Maedhros once more, his face softening as his cousin spoke. "Please…just don't. Do this for me. Just don't go."

Maedhros straightened, with a wavering breath sliding upright against the door, still staring at Fingon with an inscrutable, dark expression.

"Why? Why would I not go? I have every right to be there."

And Maedhros looked away, his eyes flickering towards the worn floorboards, a spasm of pain flitting over his face before he could stop it, a tight quirk of his lips, the slightest knot of his eyebrows. But Fingon caught his expression, a cold feeling of doubt suddenly blooming inside him.

"Maedhros, what is it? What is wrong?"

But he pushed down his doubt, stepping towards Maedhros where he still leaned against the door, with his right hand reaching out to touch him; to smooth down his hair, to stroke the side of his face, his fingertips wandering his freckled cheekbones, sliding across his jaw, such reassuring little touches that he had made so many times before…

"Don't! Don't touch me!"

Maedhros recoiled, violently, knocking his hand aside, curling away from him to hover beside the bed as Fingon stared at him, aghast. Maedhros' back was turned, and he could see the shake of his shoulders, the slight trembling of his hand as he reached up to push his hair back from where it had fallen, like torrents of molten steel frozen in ice, limned in the pallid light. Fingon paused, hurt and confusion swirling within him, a whirl of doubt and dismay flecked with little droplets of fear, eating away at him like acid through skin. Warily he stepped forward, and steeling himself he asked, his voice taught and hesitant but he had to ask, he had to _know_,

"…Maedhros, why…why are you saying this?"

And suddenly Maedhros sat, perching on the edge of the bed as if his legs had collapsed from underneath him. His hands curled into fists around the edge of the mattress, the sheets balled up between his rigid fingers. He closed his eyes, and sighed, his words sounding like they were forced from somewhere deep down inside him, burning their way up his throat.

"I can't…I shouldn't be here. My father, he…he knows. About you. And me. About us. He has forbidden me to be anywhere near you. To put an end to these "disgusting rumours" as he called them. I…I'm sorry, Fingon. I'm sorry, and I shouldn't have come, but you had to know, I had to tell you…"

Abruptly his head jerked upwards, the sheer desperation in his eyes making Fingon flinch with its intensity.

"So please listen, _please! _Do not go to court tomorrow. Tell your father you are taken ill, or that you are called away, or anything, but _do not go._"

And Fingon stood over him, his lip curling in exasperation.

"_Tell me why._"

His whisper echoed through the still air, its jarring sibilance seemingly amplified, ringing harshly into the brittle silence that fell. Then Maedhros sighed, passing one hand across his face in weariness, his words falling simple and pure from his lips.

"I cannot. To be honest, I do not even know myself. But my father, he…" Maedhros paused, looking up at Fingon, pain welling in his eyes. "Well, you know his opinion of my uncles, and he was saying such wild, dangerous things…I do not know what he intends. I do not think he knows himself. "

With that, Maedhros stood, walking over to the window, and inched it open once more. He paused, his hand resting against the sill, a faint breeze stirring the ends of his russet hair, setting them dancing like little tongues of flame against his dark tunic. Turning back to Fingon, he tried to smile, an awful, broken grin twisting across his lips, his cheeks quivering with effort of it.

"For the sake of our…_friendship_, Fingon, for our family, I would not have you stand between us. I would not have you in danger."

Then Fingon's expression softened, some part of him understanding; the truth, the sorrow in his cousin's voice reverberating in him on some visceral level. The sad ghost of a smile touched his lips, as he regarded Maedhros standing so forlornly by the window, his usual exuberance quenched, staring back at him with hollow eyes.

"I will do what I can."

And for an instant he saw relief flare in Maedhros' eyes, watched him exhale a breath he didn't know he had held, the tension visibly shuddering through his shoulders.

"Thank you, Maedhros. I know what you risk by coming here tonight. Thank you."

"I have to go," came the quiet reply, as Maedhros shifted slightly, readying himself to jump to the courtyard some feet below. And Fingon turned, not wanting to watch him go, not wanting him to see the tears that jumped unbidden into his eyes, the terrible wobble of his jaw as furiously he bit down to still it. And he waited, to hear the shift of fabric against wood, the soft crunch of his boots hitting the stones below, but instead Maedhros' low, aching voice trickled through the silence, making him start, each word puissant and crushing and filled with sorrow.

"...Fingon, whatever happens tomorrow, know that I had no part in its making. _Please_, remember that. I…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…"

And the agony in his voice seemed to break in Fingon's ribcage, it felt like his heart was trying to smash its way out of his chest, and he whirled, viciously fighting down the scream that clawed its way up his throat, that clotted in his lungs, and crossing the distance between them in two explosive strides he grabbed Maedhros where he half-sat on the windowsill, and kissed him. One hand twined through his hair, the other curled up around his back, as desperately, passionately he kissed him, their tongues sliding against each other as if they could meld into one, take each other's pain and rip it out all broken and bleeding, crumple it up and just throw it away, until they could be together, be healed. An eternity crashed into seconds, fuelled by anger and lust and fear; a slick, giddying crush of emotion that roared as Fingon kissed him, his nails digging into the skin beneath Maedhros' shirt, hot tears slide from beneath Fingon's lashes, carving silver and silent down his flushed cheeks. And after what could have been heartbeats, could have been centuries, locked together in such aching, urgent passion, he felt Maedhros push backwards against his hand, his lips slipping away, and reluctantly Fingon released him, his fingertips caressing his freckle-dusted cheekbone, sliding tenderly down his back. They parted, a sad smile lingering on Maedhros' lips, distant and yet peaceful, as he stared out of the window, the pale light silhouetting him in a corona of silver, muted and ephemeral and so achingly beautiful.

"I have to go," he breathed, reaching out to softly stroke Fingon's jaw, with his thumb brushing the tears from Fingon's cheek, before leaning in to kiss him once more, just a light, melancholy press of their lips together, so softly parted, so agonizingly final.

Then slowly Maedhros withdrew, turning fully upon the windowsill, swiftly glancing around the courtyard, and at the cobblestones below. And without another word he was gone, the sudden void of air where he was making Fingon blink in surprise. He jumped over to the window, leaning out to catch one last glimpse of him, and was rewarded only with the briefest flash of red, the ends of Maedhros' hair flicking out as he darted behind a hedge, slipping like a shadow through the dim twilight, back into his father's dominion.

Fingon stared out over the silent courtyard for a while, revelling in the cool breeze flowing over his bare chest, flushed with the sticky humidity and the lingering heat of Maedhros' body pressed up against him. The nearby trees shifted, their leaves rustling softly, a quiet sibilance rippling through the air.

"How?" he whispered, to the streams of silver light shimmering through the empty court. "How could they know? We were always so careful, we kept everything so secret…" Sadly he looked up, at the countless stars twinkling far above him, as if they would tell him, as if they knew; but the stars told him nothing, and the light held its silence. Morosely he sighed, seating himself horizontally upon the window's ledge, all thoughts of sleep banished from his mind despite his weariness. One bare foot dangled against the warm wall outside, the other leg he curled up to his chest, his arms wrapped around it, his chin resting on his knee in a curiously childlike pose. Dappled in the light, distantly he gazed at the stars, pinpricks of radiance like phosphorescent candles set amid the silver pallor. And desperately he wished he could walk up there with them, high above the world and he would look down and he would know, with the certainty of the One he would _know _what to do. But forlorn he sat, gazing up at them so cold and terrible and distant, doubt tugging at him, and a hollow pit of worry thumping with each beat of his heart.

_First Maedhros, and now this_, he thought sadly, _I have heard the whispers too, but my uncle…Surely he knows my father bears him no ill will. And what offence have I given? These rumours spring out of the walls, warped and twisted out of the ground, and their true source I cannot find. Wheels turn within wheels, something blocks our sight, ever slithering through the darkness where we are blind…_

_But does my uncle not know? We are not deaf, we are not blind either. For long months the courtiers have brought rumour to my father._ _"Beware the proud son of Míriel, firstborn heir of your people. Small love does he have for his brothers and their sons, and now he has become great! He holds his father in his hand! It will not be long before he drives you from the city!"_

…_Would he really? Does he hate us so much? That of his own kin he would make exiles without just cause?_

_And Maedhros says to stay away, to leave. But how can I? I must stand by my father, support his innocence in whatever deluded lies my uncle throws at his feet. It is my duty, no matter the danger that Maedhros hints at. I know my uncle's will is strong, but to draw blade against his own blood? Even he is not so foolish. He would not risk the punishment. _

_I will go. I must go. I will not bow down silently before one who would condemn me merely for being born. _

_I'm sorry, Maedhros…but I will be at court. And I pray that you are wrong. I pray that your visit tonight was unnecessary. Please, do not force me to choose between you: my father and my…cousin._

_Please don't make me have to make that choice._

_For truly, I do not know where my heart would land. _


	4. Chapter 4: The Plunge (1)

The marble pillars of the king's entrance hall loomed up around them, stretching like the trunks of colossal trees to a high-vaulted ceiling, its opalescent dome narrowing to a single white spire poking from the building's exterior like a needle puncturing the sky. Standing in the midst of the circular room, craning his head back, Amrod stared up at the ceiling, marvelling at the intricate sculpting of the arches, the brilliant hues of the stained glass studded into the roof casting colourful, abstract shapes against the white marble columns. Beside him, Amras also gazed at the ceiling, twisting his neck in annoyance as it was rubbed raw by his starched, itchy collar, the formal court attire ill at ease on him. As he moved his head, the slight shift in perspective sent the room spinning, some trick of depth melting the pillars into one another the further up he looked in a swirl of dizzying vertigo. He shook his head to clear it, a fiery torrent of curls spilling around his face as he glanced around the hall, looking for his father whom he was supposed to meet. At the thought, a faint wave of nausea coiled in his stomach that was not entirely to do with the vertiginous hall.

The outer doors of the room were swung open, the guards shimmering in pale livery, and between them strode his father, a leather-wrapped bundle tucked under one arm, and the look in his eyes was grim. Behind him trailed Maedhros and Maglor, their faces grave, and to his surprise Amras noticed the sheathed longswords buckled over their formal robes, their gold-capped scabbards and jewel-studded pommels shining bright and keen. The doors were swung shut behind them, but Amras caught the glint of concern in the guards' eyes, noted one slipping surreptitiously out of a hidden side-door. For an instant he considered telling someone, but the moment passed, and his father was stalking towards him, with his two elder brothers close behind. He nudged Amrod with his elbow, the fool still staring incredulously up at the ceiling, oblivious to the happenings around him. Amrod swung around, then glimpsed his father, his eyes also lingering in confusion upon the sword clasped at this waist, the bright war-helm upon his head, and the reinforced leather pauldrons buckled over his shoulders.

The two parties met in the centre of the courtroom, with an odd sort of apprehension. Wordlessly, Fëanor appraised his two youngest sons dressed in their finery; blood-red velvet jackets and cream breeches apiece, with heavy chains of gold hung about their shoulders. Truly they were mirrors of each other, from the riotous tumble of their auburn hair, to the expressions of mild bewilderment currently occupying their faces. Swiftly, Fëanor drew two sheathed swords from within the leather-wrapped package, handing one each to his sons, who accepted them in astonishment, their eyes wide. Pale emeralds glittered in their pommels, ephemeral against their dark maroon scabbards and belts. Both twins stood, caught between surprise and awe, drinking in their father's gifts. Amrod grasped the hilt of his sword, with a hiss sliding it a small length from the scabbard, admiring the silver gleam of the steel, the exquisite workmanship of the metal that could only have come from the hand of his father himself. Yet while Amrod fawned over his gift, Amras held it warily. After a moment of deliberation, he looked innocently up at Fëanor, tentatively asking,

"Why are you giving these to us, Father? Do not mistake me, indeed I am grateful. This is a mighty sword…but I do not understand the need…"

Some note of worry in his brother's voice pierced through Amrod's excitement, and slowly reason returned to him; some awareness of what he held, and where he was. He stared hard at the sword in his hands, and frowned, confusion swimming in his azure eyes.

"But father, it is forbidden to go armed before the king," he said, looking sharply at his father. "This is your father's law…"

"Quiet! Both of you!" Fëanor rounded on them swiftly, the vehemence in his voice causing Amras to flinch, little sparks of worry flaring in the pit of his stomach. "Do not contest me in this. I have forged for you these swords, they are…gifts, nothing more. You will bear them, or you will leave my company."

Fëanor glared at them expectantly, and reluctantly both twins fastened the scabbards around their waists, each slide and hitch of the buckle passing over the holes punched through the leather like a noose slipped tighter and tighter around their necks. From beneath the fall of his hair, Amras shot a despairing look at Maglor, standing over his father's shoulder. But almost imperceptibly Maglor shook his head, the tightness of his lips betraying the angry, futile words that had already poured between them, to no avail. Wincing inwardly, Amras chanced a glance at Maedhros, and almost instantly regretted it. Maedhros looked _terrible_,he thought, his hazel eyes bloodshot, flickering distractedly around the hall, never quite focusing on anything. His cheeks were pale, and there was an unhealthy pallor to him that made Amras nervous; his fist clenched all too tightly around the grip of his sword, a weird jerkiness in his breath; dark smudges like bruises blossoming beneath his eyes. It felt so alien to see his elder brother, usually so vivacious now left so hollow, for reasons unknown to him. But he could hazard a guess, and hit near the mark, watching Maedhros standing there so miserably, as if he wished the ground would swallow him up, that he could just disappear. Amras pushed his suspicions aside, now would not be the place nor time to bring them up, and with a twinge of pity he settled the belt around his waist, the sword snugly balanced across his left hip. He looked up at his father cautiously, not knowing what to expect, but Fëanor smiled at him, and Amrod in turn; a dazzling, wide grin that did not quite touch his eyes, all of its warmth bled into the icy depths of his dark irises.

And Fëanor turned from his sons, pacing before the great carven doors of the throne room, the iron plate of his helmet flashing erratically as he strode between two pillars.

"He'll be here," he muttered to himself, the words like barbs stuck through his throat, "the usurper, Fingolfin. And my pandering fool of a little brother. Oh he's so quiet, so passive, but ever they conspire together. I know it. I can see it in their eyes. It shines there like sin. Under the light of the Valar they plot to overthrow me, and the Valar in their _arrogance _will do nothing…"

Fëanor's sons clotted together in the middle of the room, flashes of consternation passing between them as they watched their father pace, listened to his voice growing in strength and passion, until suddenly Maedhros lurched forward unsteadily, as if he was drunk, with Maglor stepping worriedly after him, one hand tightly gripping around his arm.

"Father! Do not speak of such things here!"

Maedhros' voice burned, each syllable taught and strained as Fëanor whirled to stare at him. And Maglor could feel his brother's pulse through the fabric of his shirt, beating unnaturally hard beneath his skin, could feel his bicep shaking, although whether from anger or fatigue or genuine illness he did not know. Regardless, he slipped in front of Maedhros, standing between him and their father, one hand still reached behind him to hold Maedhros' arm in whatever pathetic attempt at shielding him he could muster. And with the most level, reasonable voice he could manage, he looked his father in the eye, and said:

"Maedhros is right. This is blasphemy. Father, you cannot presume to know the will of the Valar, not their extent of their influence in these matters. They…"

"Silence!" Fëanor shrieked, stepping menacingly towards his eldest sons, as Maglor in turn tightened his grip upon Maedhros' arm, his knuckles showing white beneath his skin. "Now even my sons take turn to speak against me?!"

Fëanor stalked up to Maglor, a pulsing vein split down the middle of his forehead. His eyes were caustic, sweeping over his sons with a palpable force, and to his horror Maglor felt Maedhros sway behind him, already unwell and now faced with his father's wrath. Praying that he would not faint, Maglor clenched his hand harder around Maedhros' arm, awkwardly helping to hold him steady. A small distance behind them, even the twins were cowed. They stared sullenly at the floor, unwilling to meet their father's eye. Fëanor stopped just short of Maglor, and with a look of disgust and exasperation spoke:

"Can you not see the bars of the cage even when they are pointed out to you, plain before your eyes? Here we are trapped, prisoners in a cell that we chose for ourselves, all of those years ago. Oh, are jailers are kind, they feed us, they pet us; but their food is rotten, their caresses leave blisters. We have served our sentence here; freely we came, and free we should be to depart. But everywhere I turn I am blocked, struggling like a fly caught in a web, trying to break free but only entangling itself further…"

"Father, _please_!" Maglor's voice echoed around the hall, the pillars refracting the sound into a warped susurrus of pleading half-syllables, sending shivers up his brothers' spines. Fëanor's lip curled, his head cocked dangerously to one side, and with a predatory fluidity he grabbed the lapels of Maglor's tunic, pulling him close, with Maedhros awkwardly dragged forward a step as well, Maglor's hand clamped around his arm, unable now to let go even if he wanted to. Fëanor's blazing eyes bored into Maglor's own, and he tugged Maglor closer, their noses almost touching, a snarl of fury twisted across Fëanor's face only an inch from his son's.

"_Well, the webs must be severed!"_ Fëanor whispered, spitting it into Maglor's face, and with a look of contempt releasing him. After a short pause, he reached up once more, roughly rearranging Maglor's ruffled lapels, smoothing his tunic back down. With some difficulty he bit down his fury, as an attempt at an amicable smile forced its way across his face, and he sighed, before continuing bitterly, "if rebellion is what it takes, then that is what the Valar shall have. I would be free to wander the world without, the world of my birth, taking whomever and whatever I like to be my company. Damn them, if they think to lay claim on me, or anything I have made! For I know that they lust for the Silmarils, I can see it glimmering in their eyes, in every greedy twitch of their fingers. They would take them; they would hoard them for themselves, denying their creator his right. No, I say! I will suffer them no longer! How willingly I would lead our people to freedom, deliver our mighty race from thraldom, if the Noldor would but open their eyes, if they would follow me!"

And with that, Fëanor strode to the throne-room doors, with one shove pushing them open, sending them squealing on their hinges. He paused for an instant on the threshold, a shocked silence blaring from the filled hall before him, before drawing himself up like a lion readying itself to pounce, and marching into the throne room.

In the sudden emptiness of the outer hall, with a start Maglor released Maedhros' arm, his stiff fingers unlocking, guilt flooding through him as he saw Maedhros absently rubbing his arm where his fingertips had bitten. With a quick, despairing look at the twins, he ran towards the throne room, determined to stand witness to his father's actions, whatever they might be. And after one horrible moment of silence he heard three sets of footsteps take off after him, relief rushing through him as together, four sons of Fëanor ran into the throne room of their king.


	5. Chapter 5: The Plunge (2)

Finwë, High King of the Noldor sat upon his throne with feline grace, a crown of shimmering strands of wrought silver sat proudly upon his brow. Raised upon a tiered dais, he surveyed the great hall, coolly eyeing the white marble floors melting away into shallow alcoves carved into the pale walls. Intricate sculptures stood in each recess; figures locked in granite combat, delicate frescoes of Elves and the Valar, the two great trees depicted in exquisite silver and flowing gold. At the far end of the hall, before the doors stood two Maiar, servants of Manwë sent as a kingsguard, and as beacons for peace amongst the Noldor. They glimmered in plate and mail armour; their strange, silvery eyes scanning the hall for sign of trouble, but their stance was easy, their swords hung relaxed in their scabbards, seldom put to use in these halls. Before Finwë's feet cut an empty swathe of space, his courtiers gathered in quiet discussion in little clots about the corners of the room. Scholars and tradesmen mingled with the minor nobility, amicably discussing supplies and demand of metal ores, the newest writings from of the wordsmiths, opportunities for commerce with the Telerin cities by the sea, laughing idly over the minor gossips and intrigues of the court. But amid the groups of smiles and banter stood his second son, Fingolfin, alone and grave before him.

Finwë observed him for a moment, hesitating to formally bring the court to order. Fingolfin's manner was tense, his hands clenched around the wide cuffs of his cobalt robes, his fingers digging into their rabbit fur lining. His dark hair was braided in an unusually formal style, a sleek rope of midnight black hair falling to his waist, his eyes a deep, striking blue beneath a plain band of silver resting across his forehead. He stood calmly enough, waiting for his father to announce him, but the hard lines scored around his lips and the stony set of his jaw betrayed a brittleness that left Finwë uneasy. Swiftly, he glanced right, where his grandchildren stood aside from their father. Turgon, casually leaning against a statue with a worryingly roguish air was murmuring something in Aredhel's ear, his eldest granddaughter radiant in a dress of cream, studded with clear crystals like a spray of stars, paling in beauty only in comparison to the mischievous smile curving across her delicate features. But Fingon, the eldest, was mute to their gaiety, biting his thumbnail nervously, his tired eyes skittering about the hall as if he were looking for someone, with a mixture of jittery excitement and dread. But as Aredhel gently touched his arm, no doubt to include him in whatever ribald joke Turgon was so eloquently telling, he flinched visibly, pulling away from her, and staring hard at the floor in terse silence. Finwë's eyes flickered back over the hall, this time noticing with a thrill of surprise his grandson Curufin standing alone, opposite his cousins, leaning against the far wall and seemingly scanning the crowd disinterestedly.

Setting Curufin aside, in a flash Finwë had appraised Fingolfin and his children, and was troubled by what he saw. He noted with some worry the absence of Elenwë and Argon, Fingolfin's wife and youngest son, and inwardly despaired. His son was more like to rashness without her cooling presence, and Argon always was in possession of a level head in times of pressure. Finwë possessed one firebrand in the family already, and had little patience for two. With some apprehension then, Finwë rose, holding up one hand for silence, then pausing a moment for hush to fall, conversations snuffed out like candles as the courtiers awaited their king's word with an easy curiosity. Looking down upon his son, he entreated him come forward with one sweep of his arm, and in a clear, deep voice that reverberated around the room spoke:

"Well, Fingolfin, you have requested for us to meet and take counsel together. Now, my son, tell me, why do you seek audience with me, and in such a formal manner?"

And with that, Finwë sank back onto his throne, his elbows resting upon its arms as with some small twinge of trepidation he awaited his son's reply. Fingolfin's mouth twisted harshly, contorting his usually pleasant features into a scowl, and abruptly he stepped forward, sparks of anger flaring within him.

"Father," he began, his voice dripping with an icy bitterness, "will you not restrain the pride of my brother as it oversteps its bounds? For too truly he was named 'Spirit of Fire'! It burns like a withering flame within him, devouring all in its path!"

The silence in the hall would have proclaimed a dropped needle as deafening. The king and commoners alike stared at Fingolfin in blank shock, his stinging vitriol seemingly unprompted, even as the first mutters of consternations broke through the hall, snatches of dissent rising to Fëanor's defence.

"By what right does he speak for all our people, as if he were King?" Fingolfin continued, his powerful voice silencing the whispers from the audience. "His speeches of rebellion, of defiance of the Valar, this _blasphemy_ echoes through our halls, and we hold him unchecked. You it was who long ago spoke before us, bidding us accept the Valar's invitation to these blessed lands. You it was who led our people along the road through the perils of the wild, to the bliss of our realms. You it was, father, who brought us here, and now Fëanor openly disgraces your actions. I ask of you only this: that if you do not now repent of your choices made so long ago, then you control him, forbid of him these wild and dangerous words. Two sons at least you shall have to honour your will, for Finarfin and I at least remain to you faithful."

This last proclamation rang about the hall, frozen in glassy shock at this torrent of emotion from their prince, usually so calm and thoughtful. Finwë felt the first stirrings of horror rise in his stomach, reaching up with cold tendrils to pluck at his heart, and slowly, amid the gradually rising susurrus of voices from his courtiers, he opened his mouth to reply…

But before a word passed his lips, the great doors swung open, crashing against the inner walls, sending the Maiar guards scrambling out of the way in surprise. And between them strode Fëanor, a mighty sword at his side and a war-helm upon his head, its blood-red plume carving through the silver metal. With a predatory gait he stalked the length of the hall, coldly appraising the assembled elves who melted away before him, clearing a path to where Fingolfin stood firm, regarding him icily as he approached. And a heartbeat later, four of Fëanor's sons sprinted through the doors, skidding to an abrupt halt as the silence of the hall crushed down on them like a tangible weight.

They stood in a ragged group at the far end of the hall, its marble floor sweeping away before them, empty but for the bands of courtiers staring at them in shock. Gathering themselves, they stepped forward, Maglor leading the way, trailed by an exhausted-looking Maedhros, and Amrod and Amras bringing up the rear, sticking tightly to their elder brothers. Their footsteps rang eerily loud amid the silence, the haughty eyes of the court piercing through them, lingering on the bright swords buckled around their waists; a fickle tension crackling in the air. The scant twenty metres they had to cross felt like an eternity, each footstep like moving through treacle, the air made viscous. They approached behind their father, fanning out behind him to appraise their uncle and their cousins warily. And as Maedhros laid eyes upon Fingon, half-hiding behind a statue, he blanched, what little colour was left in his cheeks fleeing, his breath catching in his throat as he swayed unsteadily. Seeing Curufin standing to his right, and with Maedhros on the verge of an embarrassing collapse, Maglor locked one hand about his elder brother's elbow, calmly steering him to the side of the hall behind Curufin, propping him up against a marble sculpture, half-turned towards the wall. Amrod and Amras slid in beside Curufin, creating the slightest of walls between them and the eyes of the court, and quickly Maglor lifted Maedhros' chin, staring him straight in the eye from where he slumped downcast against the statue. And in that instant he knew, all of those secrets and whispers and hints coalesced into cold fact, the pain in Maedhros' hazel eyes, the tremble of his jaw beneath his fingers saying more than words ever could. Maglor winced, now was _not_ the time for his brother to fall apart, and pulling together what resolve he could, Maglor looked at Maedhros sternly, the warning read unspoken across his face.

And faintly Maedhros nodded back, straightening up, and then taking one huge gulp of air walked out to stand behind Curufin, his face haggard but impassive. Maglor followed swiftly after him, his attentions now mostly focused upon his father, who glared darkly at Fingolfin.

"So it is," Fëanor spat, "even as I guessed! My half-brother would be before me with my father, in this as in all other matters!"

And in two vicious, explosive strides he closed the gap between them, pulling his sword free of its scabbard with a hiss, holding it before him in a fighter's stance, his eyes burning as he stared at Fingolfin, a snarl twisted across his face.

"Get thee gone, and take thy due place!"

Suddenly the hall burst into noise, the courtiers crying out in dismay. The two Maiar started forward, pushing through the crowd, even as Turgon lunged forward, unarmed as he was, in some attempt at aiding his father. But he was brought up short, Aredhel grabbing his arm and yanking him back, yelling at him to consider his actions. Opposite, Fëanor's sons looked on in mingled horror, Amrod and Amras' hands creeping uncertainly to the grips of their swords, Curufin reaching slowly backwards for the hilt of a dagger concealed at the small of his back. But amid the general outcry, its perpetrators stood quite still, the point of Fëanor's bright sword hovering inches from Fingolfin's chin, as the brothers stared at each other in mutual loathing. Abruptly Finwë stood, his face hard, and above the noise roared:

"Fëanor! What is the meaning of this?! Restrain yourself! You do not know the consequences your actions wreak!"

A brittle silence fell once more, each pair of eyes in the hall fixed intently on the princes. But Fëanor stood as if frozen, glaring at Fingolfin with such malice that it seemed to pierce right through him, the tip of his sword quivering. Time seemed to congeal, each second stretched into hours, until finally Fingolfin snorted, looking disdainfully at Fëanor. Without a word, he turned sharply on his heel, and before the throne bowed stiffly, before hastening from the hall, a deep frown sunk between his brows. And at that Fëanor started, yelling after Fingolfin's retreating back:

"No! Not this time, brother! This slight shall not pass so easily!"

And with a snarl of rage, Fëanor turned, hurrying out of the hall in pursuit of his brother, his sword flashing with each step, the crowd parting before him like a hot knife run through butter. Fëanor's sons glanced at each other, then with an unspoken agreement strode out of the hall to follow their father, Curufin eagerly leading, the dagger now firmly gripped within his fist, while Maedhros and Maglor lingered in the rear. To his concern, Maglor noticed his cousins doing likewise, unobtrusively slipping past the marble statues at the sides of the hall, following their father outside, Turgon and Aredhel leading, while Fingon trailed behind them, desperately trying not to make eye contact with his cousins. Worried, Maglor glanced at Maedhros, but he seemed collected, focusing on their father's retreating form with an inscrutable expression, instead of other, more distracting factors. Internally sighing with some measure of relief, Maglor hurried them from the hall, chasing after their father and uncle through the entrance hall and outside.

As the great hall quickly emptied, the assembly filing out to follow the two princes, Finwë was left alone, and sank slowly back onto his throne, his hand passing over his face in weariness and dismay. He looked upwards to the ceiling as if for supplication, his crown slightly askew on his head where his hand had brushed it.

"Fëanor. Fingolfin," he whispered softly, his brow wrinkled in a confused frown. "My sons…what dark whispers conspire to inflame you so? A stain has been shed on the House of Finwë this evil day, when brother draws sword against brother. Would that I knew aright the cause, then we should settle this foolish feud, stamp out the flames before they kindle to wildfire."

He sighed heavily, sadness welling in his dark eyes.

"My own sons…How have you fallen so low?"

* * *

Well done, and thanks to anyone who's gotten this far. Consider this story on a mini-hiatus at the moment, as life and sudden inspiration for another project have steered the wheel away from this one. But fear not, the day shall come again when once more I update this story. And it shall be a day to remember. xx


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